Chapter 1954 - 1429: The Feast at Hongmen

Tulip Hotel, independent office suite on the west side of the third floor.

The afterglow of the sunset streamed through the bullet-proof glass, casting long golden streaks on the floor.

The air conditioning system emitted a barely audible low-frequency hum, maintaining the indoor temperature at twenty-two degrees Celsius, creating a separate world from the still scorching afternoon air outside in Baghdad.

Robbin stood at the bar, retrieving a bottle of bourbon whiskey from the solid wood liquor cabinet.

The label on the bottle was worn, a product from a small batch distillery in Kentucky from ten years ago, no longer available on the market.

When he unscrewed the cap, the amber liquid swayed gently inside, reflecting an oily sheen in the angled light.

He poured half a glass, without adding ice.

The temperature of the crystal glass in his palm gradually replaced by the warmth of the whiskey. He

brought the glass to his nose and took a deep sniff.

The charred aroma of oak barrels, the sweet richness of vanilla, and a hint of tobacco-like spiciness.

This was a habit he developed during his twelve years in Illiguo.

At this time every day, a glass of bourbon without ice allowed him to detach from the tedious affairs of the day and enter the night's game.

The Green Zone outside began to awaken.

The bureaucratic system of the day was gradually winding down, while the invisible network of the night started to become active.

Streetlights began to illuminate one by one, casting a dim glow on the meticulously planned streets.

The searchlights of checkpoints swept over the vehicles waiting in line, most of which carried contractors, intelligence personnel, and local brokers who would continue the deals unfinished during the daytime within this "safe zone" enclosed by concrete walls and barbed wire.

But all this noise was filtered by the hotel's soundproof glass, leaving only blurred changes of light and shadow. A distorted tranquility.

Robbin took a sip of his drink.

The liquid brought a burning sensation as it slipped down his throat, spreading from the esophagus to his stomach.

He enjoyed this sensation, as if it reminded him he was still alive, still in control of something on this land where everything could be lost at any moment.

He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the standalone buildings in the hotel's backyard.

That was the "Clubhouse," the stage for tonight.

Workers were making the final arrangements.

He could see two uniformed waiters setting silver candelabras on the long table, while another was adjusting the sound system.

Everything was proceeding according to plan.

He turned back to the desk, picked up the black secure satellite phone, and quickly dialed a number.

The phone rang three times.

Faint breathing came through the receiver, but there was no greeting.

"He agreed," Robbin said directly, the corners of his mouth involuntarily rising: "Tonight at eight, right here."

"Very well."

Lemont's voice came through the encrypted line: "Remember our agreement, Robbin."

Lemont's voice lowered a bit, as if avoiding being overheard.

"Make sure he gets involved. Especially those Stingers and loitering munitions have to flow from him through Curtis' channels."

"Rest assured, Curtis is ready," Robbin said, looking at the security lane at the entrance downstairs: "He's a smart businessman, knows how to price, how to persuade. Besides..."

He paused, then lowered his voice almost to a whisper:

"There's indeed a demand on the Cilia side, with prices 40% higher than the market. This temptation may be too much for Song Heping to resist. After all, he's sitting on twenty-five billion worth of goods, cash flow pressure won't be small. According to the agreement he signed with the White House, those sensitive items can't be directed to 'specified areas.' But agreements are dead, people are alive. As long as he nods, Curtis can find a way to disassemble, repack, relabel and send them in three batches through the Turkish and Jordanian borders, ultimately reaching the Silia Government Army. By then…"

"By then, we'll have solid evidence proving he violated the agreement, supplying sensitive equipment to a potential American adversary."

Lemont picked up the thread, with the first hint of emotion in his voice.

It wasn't excitement, more like a repressed thrill of revenge.

"I can mobilize all resources, put him back on the specially designated list, freeze all his accounts, make it impossible for him to move in Illiguo. The Ministry of Defense's goodwill can't protect him, even if the White House intervenes, it has to follow procedure."

Robbin smiled, took another drink, savoring the complex flavors of the whiskey dissolving on his tongue.

"Then, we'll each get what we need," he said lightly: "You get revenge and credit. And I..."

He turned around, looking at the spread sheets on the desk.

They were copies of memorandums sent privately by several defense companies.

"Will get what I deserve," Robbin concluded: "After it's done, all the arms channels will go through my system. That's sustainable business."

"Don't let it go out of control," Lemont warned, his tone reverting to the typical caution of an intelligence officer: "If the negotiations fall through tonight..."

"Then we'll implement Plan B," Robbin's voice turned cold, the smile vanished from his face, "If the soft approach doesn't work, then the hard one. Black Water, Sparta, and those companies have reached an agreement, if Song Heping doesn't cooperate, they'll jointly squeeze him out of the defense circle, if necessary, even provide some... physical warnings. The contractor circle is small, it's easy to ostracize an outsider."

There was silence on the other end of the phone for a few seconds.

"Stay in touch," Lemont finally said: "Inform me of any progress. I'll be at the safe house, keeping the listening channel open."

"OK."

The call ended.

Robbin downed the remaining whiskey in his glass in one go.